


The More Loving One

by Kicker



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drinking, F/M, Fluff, POV First Person, POV Preston Garvey, Preston Appreciation Week, Sexual Content, Smoking, Swearing, all that fun stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 22:11:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5887246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kicker/pseuds/Kicker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angels are supposed to come from the sky, or at least that's what he was always told. This one rose up from under the ground, dealing death and vengeance in a hail of bullets.</p><p>Now she's at his side, leading him across the Commonwealth, rebuilding the Minutemen, and saving his life along the way.</p><p>aka Nice Things Happen To Preston Garvey Because He Deserves Them More Than Any Of Us OK</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Just gotta keep moving. That's all I can do. If I keep walking, if I keep on guard, then at the very least I'll be able to raise the alarm. I may not be able to do anything about it, but whatever. I'll have done the best I can. It's not good enough, but I'm ok with that.

Generators are the only sounds at this time of night, humming away out at the back of the workshop. Flickering bulbs shed a little light on the concrete, but it's hardly enough for me to see by. Never is. Every step, hoping the ground's still there. Taking the world on trust. Despite everything.

Sixty four steps back down to the bridge. Hand on one of the old pillars, bricks rough against my fingertips. Wonder how long it'll take me to wear a dent in it. Wonder if we'll last that long. Retrace my steps to the workshop. Cross the road, check in on Mama Murphy, that the radio's off and her door's shut because she forgets sometimes. Make sure no pots are on the fire still, no greasy rags left loose nearby to blow onto the coals and flare up when nobody's watching.

Thirty steps to the end of the street. Turn around. Start all over again.

Except this time, there's a red glow on the grass, down by the river. Flares up, dies out just as fast.

I'm on the edge of Sanctuary, by the grass that slopes down to the river. One of the more broken-down houses on my left, our feeble garden to the right. I can't see a damn thing, but I feel like I should check it out. I've just stepped out of the light, my fingers have just left the outermost corner of the house, when I smell it. Cigarette smoke.

Only one person who'd be out at this hour. The General.

I know she'll be fine out there. I could return to my patrol, close it out for the evening. Drop onto my bedroll, fail to sleep. Just another night in Sanctuary. Just another night in the Commonwealth.

But maybe I should check. Just to be sure.

I make my way down the bank, step by step, slow, unsteady, nearly tripping on tufts of dead grass. Hard to balance when you can't see where the ground is, worse when it's dropping away from you with every step. It's not exactly steep, and it's not far, but I can't help seeing myself slipping, rolling down the bank, into the river. Lying in the flow, cold water washing into my eyes, into my nose. Wondering what would get me first. The rads or the cold.

"Hey," she says, from the darkness. "Are you alright?"

She brings me back to myself.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," I say. "Pretty cold out here."

"Yeah," she says. "I'm ok."

I clear my throat, to break the momentary silence. "Well, as long as everything's ok. I'll leave you to it."

"Don't," she says, abruptly. "I mean, you don't have to. I wouldn't mind the company."

I could turn away. But now I'm standing in total darkness. Nothing to guide me but her voice.

"Sure," I say.

Green light shines up from a little way in front of me. The Pip-Boy. I can just make her out, a huddle on the ground. Another huddle to her left that must be the dog. The texture of the ground changes as I move forward. There's a mat, or a piece of carpet. I settle myself down on it, beside her, the light goes out, and the world disappears again.

There's a light touch across my knees, a gentle weight and warmth. She's put a blanket over me. I hear a gentle sniff, from the dog. The metallic sound of a lid being unscrewed.

"Here," she says, and a cold bottle is pressed into my hands. Sharp tang of alcohol in the air. It's 2am, not the best time to start drinking, but hell. When is. I drink, hold in the cough as vodka burns down my throat. It settles uneasily in my stomach, like an icy rock that's also on fire. Pass the bottle back. I hear her swallowing, liquid splashing against glass, cap being replaced.

"First clear night I think I've seen," she says.

Stars are bright, sharp, scattered across the sky. Never sure if there are fewer of them up there every time I look, or if it's clouds.

"About the only thing that's the same as it was before," she continues. "The city. My home. Me. All broken as shit. But I can look up there, and they're still there, still sparkling, still as indifferent as ever." A soft laugh. "Comforting, right?"

"You're not broken," I say. I'm surprised to hear her say it. She's the strongest one of us, how can she think she's broken?

"Look at me," she replies. "Drinking vodka alone in the middle of the night, in the ruins of my former home."

She's not alone right now.

"Though I could probably have done that before," she continues. "I never had as much blood on my hands, though."

We all have. Some more than others, some not directly. But we've all seen more than enough blood, through our own actions. Or failures.

"I suppose broken works," she says, "up to a point. Bit of steel. Adhesive. Darn the holes, paper over the cracks. You've just got to work out where the point is, when there's not enough left, when it really isn't working any more. And hope to God that you see it coming and can replace that shit. Or the part you need falls in your lap."

I saw it coming at Quincy, and I carried on. Then Lexington, and I carried on. Then Concord. Raiders screaming inside the building, outside the building. Everywhere we've been, everywhere we go. Marcie shaking with anger, what the fuck are we going to do? Sturges patting me on the shoulder, we tried, that's all we can do, it's ok, man.

Then Mama Murphy, with that slow smile, her eyes so soft. Hold on, she said. There's an angel comin' for us. For you. It's gonna be a hard road, high walls to breach and shore, but you'll take her by the hand and change the world.

Shouts from outside changing pitch as if they're changing direction. Blinking out, one by one, like stars at dawn.

Then an upturned face.

"I wonder if I'll see it before Kellogg did," she says.

He's the one who gave her that bruise on her cheek. The bullet wound in her shoulder. The laser burns on her arms. The one who took her whole family from her. But her voice is sad, almost regretful when she mentions him. I don't know that I could be that compassionate. I don't feel that way thinking of any of the people I've lost. Let alone if it were my family.

"It's not like anyone makes parts to fix humans. No roll of duct tape to fix all our shit."

She's opening the bottle again, passing it to me. I drink, deep, and my stomach isn't settling, but it's not the vodka's fault. It's her. I want to fix her, or at least try. I want her to smile. I mean, I can't... I can't replace her husband. He's gone. But I can be the best person I can be. I can keep going. I'll make this a better place. Sanctuary, the Commonwealth. I'll make it safe, for the people. For her.

I need to see her face. Make sure she's really there. That she's real. Not just me imagining a voice in the dark.

"Cigarette?" I say, holding out the packet to where I think she might be. Her fingertips brush suddenly against mine, and I near jump out of my skin.

"Wow," she says, "you really can't see anything, can you?"

"Almost nothing," I reply.

"You should eat more carrots," she says. "Vitamin A. Helps you see at night."

"I'm not exactly a fan," I say. "My mama always tried to feed them to me, and I'd hide them in my boots, stick 'em under the table. Foul as molerat."

She's laughing again. I think I love that sound. "We don't always like things that are good for us," she says. "Vodka and cigarettes, versus water and carrots. I know which ones I pick."

Flame shoots up from my lighter, sheds golden light on her face. She leans toward it, cigarette between her fingers. Her eyes flicker up to meet mine, and I keep looking at them after the cigarette is lit, when she's drawing in the first breath, turning away to blow the smoke out through soft lips. Her face, so beautiful, even with that swollen cheek.

And that's the smell of my nail burning. Now there's heat in my cheeks, as well as my burned thumb. I clear my throat, try to hold my hands steady to light my own cigarette.

Silence. Smoke, crush the remains into the dirt beside me. My legs start to shiver, cold from the ground seeping through me despite the mat and the blanket.

The dog gets up, shakes itself off, starts to move around. I can't see it, but I can hear its breath getting closer, paws tapping quietly on the dirt. Then there's a puff of damp air, on my neck. A cold, wet nose, pressed into my face.

"Oh, come on," I say, wiping my cheek with my sleeve.

"What?"

"Your dog just stuck its nose in my face."

She's laughing, real laughter. It's nice to hear, even if it is because I have dog spit on my cheek.

"He likes you," she says. "And look, he wants you to be warm."

The dog is settling down at my side, pressing its back against my leg. And it is warm, that's true. I'm not used to dogs, never really liked them. But I guess this one is ok.

And now that... that's a hand on my chest. Pushing me backwards onto the mat. My hat tips off as my head meets the ground, but it's pulled away, balanced over my forehead, over my eyes, as though I'm taking a nap on a warm afternoon. And the blanket's being pulled higher across me, pulled by an arm that stays there, resting over the fabric, across my chest. It's a gentle, comforting weight. She's settling against me, resting her head on my shoulder, her whole body pressed against mine.

She doesn't speak. Doesn't say if she notices how fast my heart is beating. Just lies there, warm. Still. Comforting. My left hand is just sticking up in the air like I'm afraid to touch her. I am, but I rest the hand on her shoulder anyway. Feel it rise and fall as she breathes. I push the hat off my eyes, look up into the sky. Strangest sensation. I can half pretend it's the time before, when the world still had hope. When there wasn't danger round every corner. When she didn't think that she was the broken one.

Time passes. Minutes? Hours? She may be asleep, but she starts to shiver, too.

The dog springs up, shakes again. She stirs at the noise. I don't want her to move. But she does, sighing, and gets to her feet.

It's cold, without her. And I still can't see a damn thing. But she remembers. There's a soft palm against mine, cold fingertips pressing the back of my hand. Leads me back into Sanctuary. Right to my door, still holding on, even though I can see fine here.

She hands me my hat. It's damp, and covered in dirt. But she remembered it.

"Night, Preston," she says.

"Goodnight," I say.

Silence. Stillness. Then she tilts her face up to kiss me on the cheek. Smiles. Presses my hand gently before she lets go. Turns and walks away, dog trotting at her heels.


	2. Chapter 2

I've got an idea. It's crazy, but it might just work. When I think of it, I get this feeling in my chest. I think it's hope. I haven't felt that for a long time.

Sturges looks away from whatever he's tinkering with. "You could just ask her," he says.

"She's got her own problems," I say.

"She's making Mama Murphy a chair. And I ain't never heard her say she's a carpenter."

"That's different, though," I say. "It's Mama Murphy. We'd all do that for her."

"Not all of us," he says, sorting through a pile of screws, knocking some on the floor.

I help pick them up for him.

"Besides," he continues, while I can't see his face, "She's sweet on you. She'll do it."

My heart near stops. "No way, man."

When I get back up and look at him, he's just raising an eyebrow. I shake my head. "She's too... she's the General."

"Only because you made her it. I don't think military rules apply just yet. But what do I know, I'm just a guy who fixes stuff." He grins, slaps me on the shoulder.

She's sat out by Mama Murphy's place with a pile of wood and fabric. The dog's beside her, chewing on a stuffed bear, tail thumping against her leg. She's holding something that might be a chair seat in her lap, hammer in her hand, fingers splayed over the frame.

"Looking good," I say.

She looks up, and a smile spreads over her face. Something pings out of her hands, and skitters away over the concrete.

"Damn it!" she exclaims. "This is impossible!"

"I'm sorry," I say. "I've disturbed you. I should go."

"You don't get away from me that easy," she says, pointing at the ground in front of her. "Sit. Help me."

And now I'm helping make a chair for Mama Murphy, and I'm definitely not a carpenter. Or upholsterer. Or whatever it is I'm doing. Which is whatever she tells me. Hold that. Tighter. Come on, Preston, smooth it out. I have no idea what I'm doing. But, you know. We're talking. Maybe I can ask her. "You heard of a place called Fort Independence?"

"Sure I have," she says. "School trips every year. What about it?"

I tell her about the radio. What we could do with it.

"Well," she says. "It's not exactly fairy-tale towers and battlements. But I'm in."

"Just like that?" I ask.

"Absolutely."

As we're gathering supplies for the journey, Sturges keeps trying to catch my eye.

I ignore him.

We set off the next morning. Make our way south. She brings the dog, of course. It runs ahead, sniffing the ground, going out of sight for what feels like hours before running back into view, looking to see if we're still there, then darting away again. We've been out together before, lots of times, but only clearing out small groups of raiders and ferals, or just talking to farmers. She's different this time. More cautious. More alert. Checks the Pip-Boy constantly. Gestures to the dog to stay with me, climbs up to a vantage point to scan the path ahead with a pair of binoculars.

I ask her if she's alright. She says she is, her smile's as warm as ever, but she still looks nervous.

A few miles later, she looks down at me from a broken wall.

"Gunner den, two o'clock", she says. "They've got an assaultron and it looks like there's some power armor up there, but I can't tell if it's usable."

We've already gone out of our way to avoid a supermutant den, and if we keep going east, we're going to end up in deathclaw territory. The sun's high as it's going to get, but we haven't taken a break for hours.

"All the options I can see are terrible", she says, and I can't argue with that. She curses, looks through her binoculars again. She shakes her head, and carefully slides back down.

"Three on the ground under the road. I can't see their weapons but they look pretty green. If I take them out quiet, we can go right under the rest of them."

"You're going to take out three of them? Quietly?" I say.

She looks me dead in the eyes. "Trust me," she says. "Look after my pack."

"What?" I ask.

She shakes it. It jingles slightly with the boxes of ammo I didn't even see her put in it. "I can't go sneaking up there with that on my back. 'What's that, Gunner #1? I don't know, Gunner #2, a pack of Christmas elves? Oh I sure hope they're bringing some gifts for us, I've been wishing real hard for a Giddyup Buttercup and I know I've been good enough, only murdered and looted the bare minimum of innocent civilians'."

"Very funny," I say, and take the pack from her.

"Wait a few minutes then head for the second support pillar. If they send up the alarm, drop them and run, you don't want to be here if that power armor drops."

She and I both know that I won't. But it's the sort of thing you say, when you're about to take a stupid risk and won't take no for an answer.

She ties a black scarf over the lower half of her face.

"More intimidating, right?" she says. But her eyes are sparkling, which doesn't seem that intimidating to me, but whatever. She disappears into the shadows under the road, the dog following softly at her heels.

I wait, then pick my way quietly toward the road, trying to stay in the shade.

"Hostile signs detected," comes the voice from above. "Scanning area."

Shouts. Curses. Then the ground shakes and I'm almost thrown to the ground. When I steady myself, there's the power armor, heading right for me.

"You made a big mistake, asshole," says the suit, raising a minigun to point directly at me.

I drop the packs, ready my musket. Fire at it. Wind up, fire again. It has no effect. I wonder if she's still alive. If she is... it's too late. This is it. This is how it ends. With me, firing useless shots at an invincible enemy.

But before the minigun can spin up fully, the suit stops dead, and pops open.

"What the fuck!" says a man's voice, from behind the suit.

He appears to the side of the suit, arms flailing. Back of his collar is held twisted in her fist. Her pistol pointing at the back of his head. She's got one foot either side of his waist, and he's scrabbling to get upright, but she's standing firm.

She pulls the trigger and drops him. Looks up at me, just for a moment. Then she turns, disappears behind the suit. It comes back to life. She takes it south, out into the open. There are more shouts from above, a couple of shots taken at her, until she sprays a few bursts of minigun fire up at them.

"Stand that assaultron down and get under your beds, unless you want me to come up there and make you," she shouts.

A pause. A robotic voice drifts down from above. "Assaultron standing down."

Everything calms. She calls me over. As I walk, carrying both packs, I see the three Gunners. One prone. One face-up, glassy-eyed. One slumped over the lift. The controls are smashed, cables cut.

She tells me to walk in front of her, just in case. The dog is already there. We don't get far before shouts come from behind.

"I think they noticed the lift," she says, and that might be a laugh.

We're fine, we're away. Except we're not. The suit beeps, and she stops.

"Shit," she says. "Core's dead."

The shouting hasn't stopped. Bullets start to ricochet off the ground around us.

"I don't have a spare," she says. "Cover me."

I send some warning blasts up at the overpass, while she exits the suit. We use it as a shield, crouching on the ground. She's leaning back against it, reloading her pistol.

"We'll have to make a run for it," she says. Eyes are bright, again, despite the danger.

"Where to?" I ask.

She takes her pack, straps it on tight. "Don't know," she says. "But trust me."

I'm not gonna lie. I'm... uneasy. But I tighten my pack. Turn to face down the road. Gunshots echoing all around.

"Go!" she says.

I run. The dog is running beside me, darting left and right across the road. I look back over my shoulder, but all I can see is a shape, might be her, might be her with both arms raised, but if I'm not careful I'll fall over my own feet, so I look back at the road.

I hear footfalls behind me. There's debris, so I can't look around, I have to avoid it, jump over fallen trees, try not to skid on shattered glass. And she's doing the same, but faster than me. Picks the highest part of a fallen wall to jump over with a shout of laughter, darts toward an overturned bus and slows to a walk, pulling out her pistol, circling around the edge, crouching, checking underneath it.

The dog runs up to her, panting. She looks around for a moment, then scruffs its ears, talks nonsense at it. She's breathing heavily, but she looks at me and grins, then takes off again. We're well out of range of the overpass, probably heading into another gang's territory, but she doesn't stop. Not right away.

When she does, she drops down by a broken wall, alone by the side of the road. Part of a building, once. Now just a wall next to a pile of bricks and splintered planks.

The dog sits down beside her. She takes out a can of water, pours some in her hand for it to drink.

"You're fast," I say.

"Yeah," she says. "Still never made the team. 'You start like a cat, cruise like a horse, and finish like an elephant. Ever thought about football?'."

Even if she weren't saying it with her face screwed up and in a weird accent, I wouldn't understand half of that.

"That's what my coach said. Well, the track coach, not my coach. She didn't want me, and you couldn't have paid me, after she said that."

I tell her I don't understand.

"Different world now," she says. "But for reference, don't ever compare me to an animal. Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you could run. I told you to run, if they sent up the alarm. So, what gives?"

"I couldn't just run," I say. "I didn't know where you were. If you were alright."

"I can look after myself," she says.

"I know," I say. "But, you know."

Doesn't stop me thinking, hearing the minigun spinning up. Wondering if it'll get me right away, or if I'll have to lie there, bleeding out, while I hear the same happen to her. Or if it already has, and she's lying glassy-eyed, staring blindly up at the overpass.

"I don't want to lose another one," she says.

"Another one of what?" I ask.

She sits up. Tips her head into my field of view. "I like you, Preston," she says. "Quite a lot. So I'd like you to stick around. If you don't mind."

If that weren't clear enough, she presses her hands to my cheeks and kisses me.

"Come on," she says, getting to her feet. "Let's keep going."

Damn. I can't leave it like this.

"Hey, wait," I say. "Were we done? I don't think we were done."

I stand up, wrap my arm around her waist. Brush some curls behind her ear. Kiss her properly.

"Okay," I say, as she smiles up at me. "Now we can go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops I accidentally more chapters


	3. Chapter 3

It takes a little while for me to wipe the smile off my face. It would have faded sooner, but she keeps looking over at me, and I don't think it's just because she's spotted something she needs me to shoot at. I hope not, anyway.

We're right on the outside of Cambridge, skirting the line between river mirelurks and city ferals. She's turning a dial on the Pip-Boy, frowning.

"What's up?" I say.

"Not sure," she says. "Just a weird signal." She plays it, turns it up loud so I can hear, but it's garbled, doesn't make sense. I can barely make out any words at all. Glad, arks, running. Nonsense.

"Probably nothing," she says. "Just another set of skeletons clutching a ham radio."

We keep walking. Every now and again, she turns the dial. She hates to leave a mystery unsolved. But it doesn't get any clearer, in fact it starts to fade away, so she stops. Evening starts to fall. We should probably be thinking about finding shelter for the night, but we are making good time, so we could get further.

Then she sees a shop, and her eyes light up.

"I know it's not quite time to stop," she says, "but this is a donut shop. Please?"

"There won't be any donuts," I say. "Don't get your hopes up."

"It might still smell of them, though," she says. She grabs my hand, clasps it between both of hers. "The spirit of donuts must linger in the building. It will give us strength for the road ahead, if only we sleep in its greasy, sugary embrace."

I don't really know what she's talking about, but that smile's pretty persuasive.

She walks in through the door. Takes a deep breath, through her nose. Raises her arms in the air, fingers spread wide.

"I can't smell donuts," she says, arms dropping. "Or even coffee. I was wrong. So very wrong. I'll never learn."

But places like this have a counter, which is good cover, and shelves behind it for our things. We can block up the windows and doors. It's almost safe, or at least safe enough to last the night, with any luck. And sometimes, like tonight, she'll perch on a stool by that counter and tell me about the time before, as we share whatever food we've got. Tonight, she's insisted on the snack cakes. Not the most rounded meal, but at least it's not carrots, and it's the closest to donuts she can get. Or so she says.

The dog's sitting at her heels, sniffing up crumbs. She tells me of a time she came in this very place, shouted at the server because she had a taxi outside waiting for her. Still charging her. Hundreds of dollars. She hits the register, opens it up. Takes out the notes inside, fanning them out in her hands.

"Worthless all along," she says. "I didn't even realise. And the coffee was shit, too."

I don't even know how long we were talking, but eventually I start yawning. It's probably time to turn in.

We've slept together plenty of times... I mean, we've slept in the same place, in the same area, not _together_ together. On those early excursions from Sanctuary, we'd drop our bedrolls wherever, sleep fully-clothed. No light, because that's more likely to attract unwanted attention. Neither of us sleeping, but politely pretending we don't know the other is awake.

It's a bit different now. Still separate rolls, still fully-clothed. Still no light. But now, I'd spend my whole night on guard, just to keep her safe. She has a different idea of things, though. Practically orders me to lie down. She's the one checking the perimeter. She pats the dog on the ears, tells it to watch for danger. Only then does she settle herself under her blanket and turn out the lamp.

As much as I trust her, I still can't help thinking of ferals that might already have noticed us. Swarming in through the windows. Tearing us apart. Having to watch her be ripped to pieces before I am. If not ferals, then raiders. If not raiders, then mutants.

So, I'm awake. Have been for... well, ever. But tonight, I'm even more awake than normal, and I didn't think that was possible. The dog's not moving, so it's not that there's any danger. There are no noises from outside. But there's something wrong. A rhythm that's not right. I listen for a while. Her breath is too fast, I think. Not just too fast, it's uneven. So I reach for my hat, find my lighter in it. Flip it on.

She normally lies on her side, her jacket rolled up under her head, holding her pack to her chest. I can still feel the pack between us, a solid presence. But she's lying on her back, both arms by her sides. She's breathing fast, sure, but it doesn't look uncomfortable.

I let the flame die out. It's probably nothing. She's just dreaming. Nice to see her asleep, for once, if she is.

"Help me," she says.

That was loud. Really loud. But the dog's still not moving, so maybe I imagined it. Maybe I'm the one that's dreaming. Maybe I've dreamed this whole thing, and I'm still on my own in Sanctuary.

I flip the lighter on again. Now, her eyes are open, and she seems terrified. She looks toward me, and her hand darts up and knocks the lighter out of my hand like she thinks it's a weapon or something. I'm left with her hand gripped tight around my wrist and nothing else to go on.

"Oh God," she says, gasping, "I'm so sorry."

She lets go.

"It's ok," I say. "Are you alright? You... asked for help."

"I said it out loud?" She laughs, but it's not a good laugh. "Sleep-talking now. Great. Another thing to add to the list."

Her voice is muffled, like she has her hands pressed over her face. Her breath's still fast, catching like she's on the verge of crying.

I sit up. Feel around for her pack. Drag it up out of the way.

"Hey," I say. "Come over here."

There's a pause. Then an arm, around my waist. Her face comes to rest against my chest. She shifts herself, gradually, until her whole body is pressed against mine. Her hair is under my nose, warm and smoky. We lie like that for a while, until her breathing slows.

"I'm on a train," she says, eventually. "Going fast. Too fast. I know something's wrong. And I know it's getting faster because I can't stay on the seat. I'm trying to grab a handrail, grab the seat, get my feet on the floor, anything. Then we're all up in the air and I realise that this is it. This is the end."

We all have times when we see the end coming, whether it's real or not. Right?

"I get it a lot," she says, quietly.

"It's ok," I say. "I've got you now." I press a kiss into the top of her head.

She holds me tighter.

"Yeah," she says. "You have."

Now there's all these soft kisses on my face, and a hand stroking behind my ear.

Then, you know, one thing leads to another, and there's a hand popping open the top button of my pants.

Much as I want it, it's not safe, it's not right, not in a place like this. Maybe I said that out loud. Maybe she's thinking the same.

"It's never going to be safe," she says. "We could have concrete walls ten feet thick, a dozen soldiers on guard, and it still wouldn't be safe. Nothing is in this fucking hellhole."

She's right. We've set up a perimeter of frag mines. Blocked the doors, both of them. The windows, broken as they are, are covered by shutters. And the dog's there on guard, if quietly barking in his sleep counts as being on guard.

If that's not safe then how do we sleep?

Well. I think the dark circles under our eyes give away the answer to that question.

She unbuttons my pants. Slides her hand inside. Whispers, with her lips brushing against my ear. "If you don't want this," she says, "just tell me."

It's not that. It's not that at all. It's just not how I imagined it.

"Life doesn't always live up to our expectations," she says. "You just gotta roll with the punches."

She's gone, not touching me any more, but I can hear the sounds of fabric being pulled over skin and by God I wish I could see anything.

Silence, except for my breathing.

Then a hand on my foot, a thumb pressing into my ankle. Fingers trailing up my leg, pausing against the outside of my knee. Something that might be warm breath through the fabric of my pants, moving up my thigh.

She pulls up my shirt a little, there's a kiss on my hip bone. She grazes the skin with her teeth. Then she pulls herself up over me, sinks down on her elbows, body pressed against mine, all of her, so close, so warm.

"If anything happens," she says, stroking her nose along mine, "remember that ferals don't care what you're wearing. You can still kill them, pants down."

I nod.

"My pistol's under the counter," she says.

I nod.

"Grenades are in the bag on the dishrack," she says.

I nod, mouth dry.

"I love you," she says.

God damn.

Then she's asking me if this is ok, and I can't even put into words. This? This is fine. This is more than fine. It's her, she's with me, and she wants me, and I never thought this was possible. She's pressed in close, her chest against mine, meeting my every move, meeting my lips the moment I lift them towards her. And it's glorious, like she should sprout wings and reveal herself as my guardian angel, come down from the sky, or, you know, up from the vault, to save me. I'm almost wondering if you can die from this. If you can, I don't think I care.

After, I think I even sleep. I'd think it was all a dream but next time I open my eyes, she's beside me, back against my chest, and both blankets are resting over us, instead of us each being huddled under our own. My arm's crossed over her and she's holding onto it like she doesn't want to let go.

Next time I open my eyes, though, she has. I am alone. There's gray light coming in over the counter, and when I get up, I see her standing by the door, looking out into the street.

"Looking good," she says, when she sees me. A little smile on her face. "Nice day for a ten mile walk. Or fifteen. Or however long we've got left."

We unpile the chairs from in front of the door. The dog edges out into the street, sniffing the air with an upturned nose. We pack up, sling everything outside the door.

"Hold on a second," I say. I run my hand up her back, over her shoulderblades.

"What," she says, "did I lean in something?"

"Oh, no," I say, "You know. Just checking for wings."

She stops dead. Her face slowly cracks into a smile. Then she laughs, loud, really loud.

"Oh my God, Preston," she says. "That is actually the corniest line I ever heard."

"That doesn't sound like you liked it," I say.

"Babe," she says, taking my arm, folding hers around it. "I'll take it."


	4. Chapter 4

I'm just moving. One foot after the other. Just like my patrols in Sanctuary, except there's no point counting the steps because we're covering new ground. I try, sometimes, but whenever I do, she points out a landmark, tells me all about it, and there's always a number, feet, or miles, or years, to break my count.

That or she's just laughing, her hand on my back, sneaking a kiss onto my cheek. Then I lose track of everything, to be honest.

We're still travelling around the outskirts of the city. The river's a few blocks away, we're going to have to cross it before long, but it's something we don't quite have to think about, not yet. We can still hear our lonely footfalls on dusty concrete, and I can... you know. Let her trap me against an old brick wall for a kiss, while the dog patters around our feet.

Then the street we're walking down clears out, all of a sudden. No cars. Just silence and dust. Then I start to notice the signs. Mannequins in windows. Skulls strung like decorations.

"Shit," she says. "Raiders."

Then there's an explosion of pain in my chest. I look down, see a patch of red spreading across my jacket, already soaking through the collar.

Okay. I've been shot. This is fine. Happened plenty of times before. Just need to reach in my pocket for a stimpak, and I'll be fine.

But then blue is all I can see. Plain blue. Hubflower blue, almost. Can't hear or feel a damn thing, but that blue is really bright. Not going to forget that in a hurry.

Am I too late? Did it happen that fast? One shot and I'm dead. No, it can't be. My face is cold, but my skull feels like it's on fire. Then something appears over my field of vision. Looks like the dog's nose. Noises start to come back. Might be it growling. Are those shots? Or shouts?

I close my eyes for a second, and now somehow I can see the road. Have I turned over? I don't remember doing it. I can see the pool of blood spreading in front of me. I know it looks worse than it is, all spread out like this. I've seen people survive worse. I can do it too. I need to get a stimpak. There's one in my pocket, right there. But I can't move. My arm won't move. I could just reach out, jab it into my leg. Except... I can't.

She's in the middle of the road. Face to face with a woman, also dressed in black, scarf around her neck, not even bothering to cover her face.

"Drop the gun," says the raider, "or your boyfriend gets it for real."

She drops it. The raider steps forward, kicks it away. Steps back to a safe distance.

"On your knees, bitch," says the raider. "C'mon. Cower for me."

She doesn't move.

"Fucking do it," spits the raider. Takes a few steps toward me. Lifts the rifle. I can't even flinch.

Her head drops. She lowers down onto a knee.

But only one.

"Yeah," the raider's saying. "This is more like it. I thought I'd have to kill the fucking dog, to get you to behave. And that would be a real fucking waste. It'll be far more useful to me than you two fucking assholes."

"Not it," she says, quietly. " _He_."

"Shut the fuck up," says the raider. "Hands on the ground."

She lowers her hands, as instructed, fingertips pressing against the concrete, settling in the dust.

She can't be giving up. Not like this. It can't end like this. My fingers start to tingle. My hand starts to move for me. I reach in my pocket, pull out the stimpak, jab it into my leg. Stings like hell, and I guess I make some noise, because the raider looks up.

Turns out, it's just enough of a distraction.

Her full weight hits the raider at hip-height, arms wrapping around, knocking her off her feet. One moment stood tall, thinking she has control of the situation. A second later, everything's turned around. That's how quickly things can change, here. That's what we have to deal with, every day.

The raider throws her arms up with a howl, trying to catch herself, trying to break her fall. But she hasn't got a chance, not against the General, and her head cracks against the concrete. She tries to push herself up. Spits out some kind of insult. Gets a fist to the face in reply. Howls some more, until a couple more fists leave her dazed and limp.

The stimpak has slowed the bleeding, but the pain in my shoulder is like nothing I've ever felt before. I roll onto my back, look back up into the blue, concentrate on breathing. This isn't the end. I'm good. She's good. The dog's moving away from me, too, like it knows I'm ok.

No.

_He_ knows I'm ok.

My left arm's moving properly now, so I can push myself up, test out the right. My index finger's moving. Better than nothing, I guess. I nearly fall right back down when I stand up, heartbeat throbbing in my ears, vision going black. I keep it together. I'm going to keep it together. I take a few steps toward her.

She's standing astride the raider. Tapping her foot against the woman's head.

"Look at me," she says.

The raider does as she's told. Blue eyes. Terrified eyes. Blood dripping down her cheek from a nose that's starting to swell already. Stares up into the pistol that's pointing between her eyes.

This isn't right.

"Hey," I say. "Look, let it go. There's no time."

"Won't take long," she says, clicking off the safety. Maybe she can't hear the whimpering. Maybe she can't see the fear. Maybe she doesn't care to, and that's just as bad.

"Come on," I say. "She's not worth it."

I don't know if she'd have listened to me. But I think we can both hear the shouts, starting to echo out from the tumbledown shops by the side of the road. Interior doors crashing open.

A suit of armor, powering up.

She puts away the pistol. Leans down toward the raider. "You're lucky," she says. "This guy's much nicer than I am."

She picks up her pack, tightens the straps. Catches my eye. No smile this time, but I know what's coming. So I strap on my pack, as tight as I can with the blood still dripping out of my shoulder, and start running.

Feet thudding on the ground. Lungs burning, pain stabbing right down my arm. Raiders aren't even following us, no bullets ricocheting, no shouts, nothing. She keeps going, like she doesn't want to stop. Like she can't stop.

But she keeps looking over her shoulder. So I see the fallen streetlight before she does. I try to call out, but it's too late. She trips and tumbles through the air, down the slope that leads to the river. She seems to roll for an age, before coming to a rest on her back. She's got dust and dirt all over her, grazes and scrapes on her arms. She's completely still, and I'm almost starting to worry when she lifts her hand and holds her elbow.

I drop down beside her, on my knees. She's staring up into the sky, like I just was.

"You need a stimpak?" I ask.

"No," she says. Just breathes, ragged. Time passes, I don't know how long. The dog sits panting beside her, but doesn't press in close like it... he normally does. Like he's scared to touch her, too.

"Come on," I say. "Talk to me."

She closes her eyes. Swallows. "Why'd you stop me?"

I don't know. I just had to. I couldn't watch her take a life like that. The raider was down, defenceless. It was cruel. I don't want to think that of her. That's not what she is.

"Just didn't seem right," I say.

"Changing the world, is it?" she says, bitterly. "One life at a time."

Mama Murphy's words come back to me. _You'll take her by the hand and change the world._

"Maybe," I say. "But there's only one life I was thinking of."

She closes her eyes. There's a tear rolling down her cheek. "It's too late," she says. "I've gone too far."

"No," I say. "That's not true. You stopped. You're ok."

She's not ok. She's hurting. It's obvious. But she's not moving. She's not talking. Everything I say falls on deaf ears.

Dogmeat extends his nose toward me. Little sniff. Fix her, he seems to say. Please.

"Okay," I say. "If you won't listen to me, will you at least listen to Dogmeat? Look at him, he's worried."

She doesn't move, and he starts panting like he's thirsty, so I grab a can of water from my pack. I pour a bit in my hand for him, like she did before. He trots over and, it's... not a pleasant sensation. He licks my face, after, gratitude I guess, and it's kinda cold and hot and disgusting, all at the same time. Then he runs around and sticks his nose on her face, too. She lets out a cry of surprise, and I can't help but laugh.

"I think that's payback," I say.

She sits up. Her eyes widen at the blood all over me, but I tell her it's fine, barely even hurts any more. But she's wincing and still holding her elbow like her whole side hurts.

"Are you ok?" I ask. "You hit that raider like a sledgehammer."

She rubs her hand up and down her arm, and I can see now that her shoulders aren't sitting level. "Yeah, well," she says, "Turned out I wasn't good enough for the football team either. But I learned a couple of things. Not how to not hurt myself in the process, but maybe that was lesson three."

I reach out, stroke a hand down her cheek. "You need a stimpak."

"Okay Preston," she says, with a deep sigh. "Maybe I do."

It sounds like a big admission, and I don't understand why. They exist for a reason, right? And she doesn't move at all, so I have to jab her with it myself. She takes in a deep breath, and it almost whistles in through her clenched teeth. She was hurting even more than she'd let on.

I let her breathe for a moment. Wait for it to act. Wait for her to come back to me. Then I lean forward, elbows on my knees. Try to appear in her field of vision, like she once did in mine, right when I needed her.

"Come on," I say. "We've got miles to go yet."

With hindsight, doesn't seem the most positive remark to make. But she does angle her face up to mine, and there is a hint of a smile there.

"Oh good," she says.

I pull her to her feet, with her good arm of course. I might keep hold of her hand, because, you know. I can't just let go. Don't want to, either.

She takes a deep breath. "You're a good person, Preston," she says.

I smile, lift my hat to sneak a kiss onto her cheek. "I know," I say. "Come on."


	5. Chapter 5

We met up with the other Minutemen in a shack short of the Castle. The General took over entirely, giving out orders like a General should. Just a bunch of mirelurks, no trouble at all. Until the queen turned up. I've heard of them, of course, but never seen one before. Hope I never see one again, specially not one as spitting mad as this one.

But when I looked down into the courtyard, the General had a missile launcher on her shoulder. Which... on the scale of _unexpected things the General has done_ , kinda... reset that scale, and not for the first time. But we came out of the fight with all hands alive, albeit with a couple of acid burns to deal with that took up most of our stimpaks.

So, we did it. The Castle is ours. I don't really know what to say. The guys are clearing things up. Depositing piles of mirelurk shells and... other things, downwind of the walls. The General practically passed out from the smell a little while ago, so I sent her outside while we started to clean up. I'd better go check on her.

She's sitting by the shore, throwing stones into the water. I settle down next to her.

"Have you seen Dogmeat?" she asks.

"No," I say, but at that exact moment, pebbles start to skitter down the bank.

"Ugh," she says, "I hope he hasn't been rolling in anything gross."

He runs down the beach toward us, and bounds around to stand two paws on her lap. He licks her face, then runs away again.

She laughs, and wipes her cheek on her sleeve. "I hope he hasn't been eating anything gross, either."

"It's ok," I say, inspecting her face. "No green stains."

She rolls her eyes. But she's still looking out across the water. And I know what she's looking at, without turning my head.

"What an eyesore," she says.

She's looking at the metal zeppelin up to the north of us. It flew over a few days back, settled into a berth above the airport. The Minutemen waiting for us had been closer to it, and said it came in flanked by vertibirds, broadcasting a message of peace.

It looks like danger, to me.

She throws a stone towards it. "What do you think they want?"

"No idea," I say. "But I don't like it. I never heard of Brotherhood coming out this far."

"Perhaps they're just taking a little vacation. Change of scenery, good for the soul."

When the wind blows in this direction, it's full of the humming of vertibird engines, minigun fire, explosions. Big explosions.

"Some vacation," I say.

"Maybe we should go and ask them," she says. "A diplomatic visit. Representing the Minutemen. The Commonwealth, even, we could pull that off."

"Oh," I say. "I suppose. You think we should?"

"I don't know," she says. "Probably something a General should know. Maybe there'll be a book around here, ' _How to be a General_ ', by General A. Fancypants."

"You're doing fine so far," I say.

"' _How to be a Diplomat_ ', by T. B. Ambassador."

"Seriously," I say.

She laughs. "' _How not to Start a War Accidentally_ ', and I can't even be bothered to think up an author for that, I just really want them to drop by and tell me what to do."

Her expression isn't pained, exactly, but maybe mine is. I mean, we just retook the Castle. That's a whole step up from where we were before. From survival, to consolidation. Neither of us have got the skills, really. It's nothing like the politics of the old days, of course, but we could get ourselves in a world of trouble before we even realise it.

"I'll need a hat," she says. "They look like the kind that would respect a hat more than a person."

I take off my hat. Drop it onto her head. It doesn't really fit over her hair.

"I'm going to assume you're not laughing at me," she says, trying to pat it down. She gives up, and wrinkles her nose. "Forget about how it looks, I don't feel inspired to diplomacy anyway. It is warm, though, no wonder you wear it all the time."

I run a hand over my head. Hadn't really thought about it, it's just part of the uniform.

"Anyway," she says, "you can't not have a hat. Imagine the scandal of my second-in-command not having a hat? Shockwaves, felt right across the Commonwealth."

Who'd have thought it. I'm just a kid who joined up, wanting to make a difference. Didn't think I ever actually would.

"This is just for practice," I say. "I will be taking it back."

She lies back on the stones. Balances the hat over her forehead, shading her eyes from an imaginary sun. Dogmeat skitters back down the stones to sit by her side, panting. I reach out to scratch his ears.

"Yeah," she says, "I really do need a hat. This is great. Even insomnia would be cool in a hat like this."

"I wouldn't go that far," I say.

She holds out her arm, and beckons me in. I rest my head on her shoulder, my arm over her waist. She smells of cigarette smoke and gunpowder. Might be residue from the missile launcher. I wonder where she found it, because her pack isn't big enough for a launcher even before you factor in the ammo.

Maybe this place has hidden depths.

I don't know what time it is. I feel like I should be helping the guys in the Castle, that's a horrible job they've got to do. And I know there's more. We need to get the radio transmitter online, never mind what comes after. But lying here, her fingers gently stroking my shoulder, watching the tide gently lap against the stones. Dogmeat just over there chewing on a bit of driftwood. It's nice. I don't want to move.

But, it is starting to get dark. And cold. "Come on," I say, "We should get inside."

She groans. "Don't make me go back in there, it smells so bad."

"You'll be alright. Here. Hold this over your nose." I pull off my scarf, wrap it around her neck.

She tucks the ends in her jacket, pulls the fabric over her nose. "I feel like I'm about to rob a bank or something." She makes guns with her fingers, pokes them into my chest. "Hand over the cash! I mean, caps."

"Uh," I say, "ma'am, I feel obliged to tell you that I am armed."

"Oh," she says, "well, sorry, my mistake. Did I say hand over the cash? I meant, uh, have a nice day. You must have misheard, the scarf, you know." She pulls back her hand, flexes it gently. Waggles the fingers as though it's a greeting. Her eyes sparkle, like they did back at the underpass.

I love when she does her play-acting. "Come on," I say, and hold out my hand.

Soft palm against mine, cold fingertips pressing my skin. She stands still. Stays there, when I start to move. I have to pull pretty hard to make her move, but she does, with a grin.

Pebbles crunching underfoot, then broken masonry as we cross into the courtyard.

The mirelurk queen lies sprawling, taking up most of that courtyard, towering over our heads, almost above the walls. It, or she, I guess, is steaming in the cold air, leaking... fluids all over the dirt. A couple of Minutemen are approaching with ropes, trying to work out how to get her out of here. The place really does smell awful. I'm trying not to breathe through my nose but I'm wondering how much damage it's doing going straight into my lungs, this can't be healthy. I don't know how many stimpaks we have left, but I bet we'll need more before long.

Checking on the General, I see she has her hand pressing over the scarf, her eyes watering despite that. And Dogmeat's edging right around the opposite wall, so I suppose he's not having it much easier. Sensitive dog noses and all.

But a little while ago, while we were sweeping the place, we found a room that the mirelurks hadn't gotten into, with all their trailing seaweed and stinking eggs. It's actually fairly clean, hardly even dusty. There's a few filing cabinets, a huge desk, and a shabby old bed at the back. Not quite clear what this room was used for, whether it was like this in the old days, or if it was the last inhabitant prior to the mirelurks, but I'm thinking it'll serve as a base of operations.

I keep the door open for a bare minimum of time. Wedge it shut behind us. Hope the smell doesn't follow us in.

"Oh," she says. "This is... okay."

She finds her pack, pulls out Dogmeat's blanket, drops it on the floor under the desk. He jumps right on it, barks at her before burying his face in it.

She's looking around, taking stock of what's in the room. She taps a map on the wall, approving, the Commonwealth in the old days. Then she goes through the cabinets and drawers, exclaims when she finds something. A box, that she shakes in the air. She stands in front of the map, checking the Pip-Boy, taking pins from the box and pushing them into it.

I sit on the edge of the desk, while she works. When she turned up, back in Concord, I had no idea we'd make it this far. Every moment we lived was another moment of danger. I saw death around every corner. Now, it's still there, but I feel I can face up to it. I'm watching her map out our territory, even. And...

And.

She loves me.

I can't believe it, really. It's always been... it's always been that I'm the one that's felt more. And that's fine, you know. I'd rather feel something than nothing. But now I'm the asshole that hasn't told her.

"Check it out," she says. "This is what we've done."

We've changed the world. Or a little bit of it, at least.

"Oh," she's saying, "if we can get some caravans to come down here, then we just need a couple of places to the west, and we can get a whole trade route going on. Oberland, Sunshine Tidings, Sanctuary."

I feel it rolling through my chest before I say it, spilling down my arms into the hands that are suddenly holding her face. I don't remember putting them there, but if I could never let go, I wouldn't mind that, either.

"I love you," I say, and kiss her like I've never kissed anyone before.

"Uh," she says, when I let her go. "Talking about trade routes is what does it for you?"

"Nah," I say, when I can breathe again. "It's the whole package."

"Cute," she says, with a smile.

"So," I say, "it occurs to me that the walls are ten feet thick, if you ignore the sections that have fallen down."

"Oh," she says.

"Not quite a dozen men on patrol, but we'll get there."

"Okay," she says. "Where's my pistol?"

"On the desk," I say, taking my hat off her head.

"The grenades?"

"There's a few in my pack," I say, unwinding my scarf from her neck.

So many buttons to undo, jackets, waistcoats, shirts. Boots to slip off tired feet, torn socks to peel off with a wry smile. All that to go through before I can hold her close, real close. Press kisses in her hair, on her face, on her neck.

Then we're the kind of idiots who just fall asleep. But hell, if it isn't the best sleep I've had in months. Years. Maybe ever. Safe. Warm. Loved.

Kinda sickening, right?

Yeah.

I love it.

**Author's Note:**

> I love that this is still getting hits and kudos so long after I finished it. Thanks everyone! <3
> 
> Feel free to come and say hi on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/kickerwrites) or [Tumblr](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/). :)


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